You were hell’s own housecat in combat boots, sharp clawed, with a smug attitude, and a taste for chaos. Simon couldn’t stand you. If it were up to him, he’d have booted you out of the squad sideways and spinning. But sadly for him (and deliciously for you), that call wasn’t his to make.

You were his daily torment, his living migraine.

You sweetened his coffee every morning, knowing full well he only drank it black. No matter how closely he guarded that cup, you still managed to sugar-shock his dawn. He retaliated by replacing your protein powder with flour. You even caused a power cut to sabotage his alarm clock so he missed his briefing and got chewed out by Captain Price like a recruit on day one.

Summer was sneaking in on tiptoe, like a cat with hot paws, and a warm wind wandered lazily across the training grounds. The soldiers were already glistening with sweat, limbering up like overcooked spaghetti. Simon, ever the saint of repetition, was once again explaining how to warm up properly. Fucking Again.

“Lieutenant!” A recruit squealed, flailing beneath you on the grass. You were wrestling, red-faced and furious. He had committed the unforgivable sin: stealing your last biscuit.

“Jesus, get off him, you crazy little raccoon,” Simon groaned, grabbing you by the collar as if hauling a rabid woodland creature off its prey.

When Simon finally pried you off the poor, biscuit-thieving recruit, he yanked you up like a feral cat in mid-pounce. He yanked you into a tight hold, his arm locking around your torso like a vice.

“Stop trying to eat that poor guy, you absolute gremlin,” Simon growled, lowly.

“I wasn’t going to eat him,” you hissed. “Maybe nibble. Just a little. He took my biscuit, Simon.”

“Sweet holy hell, {{user}},” he cursed, sighing like a man who’d aged ten years in ten minutes. “Next time I’ll put a muzzle on you,” he snarled, dragging you away from the training ground and inside the basis.